


The Best Katsudon in Town

by lily_winterwood



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Alternate Universe - Yakuza, Comedy, Crimes & Criminals, Drama, M/M, Oblivious Victor Nikiforov, Organized Crime, YOI Mafia Zine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-05-02 17:47:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14550030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lily_winterwood/pseuds/lily_winterwood
Summary: A late-night food craving leads Viktor to discover the Yu-Topia restaurant, and its odd inhabitants.A piece forIn Cold Blood.





	The Best Katsudon in Town

Viktor Nikiforov likes to think he’s a man of little vices.

He rarely drinks, rarely sleeps around, rarely deviates from his nutritionist’s guidelines. In fact, if he were to have a vice at all, it’d probably be working a bit _too_ hard — but that’s an occupational hazard in becoming the uncontested World Champion in Men’s Figure Skating.

And the vice of workaholism has now led him to a brand-new vice in the form of the Yu-Topia Japanese restaurant, just down the street from the rink and open tantalisingly late. The fact that said restaurant is only occupied by a band of tough-looking men in the corner drinking and playing cards does not faze Viktor one bit. At this hour, he would do anything for an edible meal, since nothing in his apartment is anywhere near ‘edible’.

One of the men at the table looks up when he enters. “Mari!” he yells, and the group quickly resume their quiet muttering amongst one another, not paying attention to Viktor as they lay down their cards. Another man grumbles after a bad hand, sets down his cards, and goes out for a smoke.

A woman with bleached hair suddenly comes out from behind the black noren hanging over the entrance to the kitchen, her long-sleeved uniform meticulously buttoned up at the cuffs. She looks disgruntled with something — potentially an issue in the back, potentially Viktor himself at this hour, potentially the inevitable heat death of the universe. Viktor wouldn’t know, and he doesn’t care to find out.

Mari levels a cool glare at him. “Whaddya want?” she asks.

“Your house special, please,” says Viktor, pointing to the corresponding picture on the menu of a big bowl of golden breaded pork cutlets and steamed rice. Mari jots something down on her notepad, and then raises an eyebrow.

“Anything to drink?”

“Tea, I guess,” says Viktor.

Mari grunts, and heads back behind the noren. There’s some shouting in Japanese, and moments later she returns with tea in a mug. She sets it down, before asking the men around the table if they want more beer.

Viktor’s dish comes out soon after that, and from the first bite, he falls in love.

* * *

Viktor returns to the restaurant within the week.

This time, it’s just past the dinner rush but the place still looks just as empty. Despite that, his dish comes out late. He would be mad, except this time the chef brings out his bowl personally.

And the chef is the most beautiful man Viktor has ever seen in his life. With black hair falling gently in sparkling brown eyes and a set of blue-rimmed glasses perched on a cute button nose, the man sets down the bowl and bobs apologetically at Viktor, his hands folded and his voice soft with contrition. Viktor swoons internally at the soft pink flush of his cheeks, at the bitten rose of his lips.

“You must be an angel, because your creations are a gift from God,” he declares after a bite, and the young man’s ears flare bright red at that.

“It’s a family recipe,” he demurs. “My parents perfected it and passed it on to me and my sister.” He nods over at Mari, who is delivering more tea to the men playing cards in the corner. “I should get back.”

“No, please,” Viktor begs. “I’m Viktor. Viktor Nikiforov.”

“I know,” says the man, before stopping and grimacing, as if he’d like to tuck himself into that last phrase and never emerge again. “I mean, I’ve seen you skate during the Olympics. You’re very good.”

“And how come I don’t see you on a Michelin guide?” wonders Viktor. “Your food is to _die_ for!”

The man’s face goes bright scarlet. “I suppose,” he hedges, before smiling again. “I’m Yuuri. Yuuri Katsuki.”

“Charmed,” replies Viktor.

He orders another bowl to-go. This one arrives in a box, and much faster than the bowl itself. As Mari takes his card back to the till, Viktor calls after her:

“Give my compliments to the chef!”

He can almost _hear_ Mari’s eyeroll through the noren.

* * *

The thing about finding a good place to eat is that you invariably want to share your find with others. Others, in this case, being his young semi-protégé, Yuri Plisetsky.

As always, Yuri agrees to go to lunch with him but grumbles the entire way. “I don’t see the point in us needing ‘bonding time’ or whatever smooshy goopy nonsense Yakov is putting us through,” he complains as Viktor holds the door to the restaurant open for him. “It’s not like we don’t already spend way too much time together.”

“You _never_ come over,” complains Viktor in response.

Yuri sticks out his tongue. “That’s because I don’t _want_ to sit around crocheting lace doilies and watching bad telly with you,” he snaps.

Viktor gapes at him. “Making doilies is a perfectly reasonable soap-watching habit,” he sniffs, before leading them over to his usual table. Yuri looks around, his brows furrowed at the off-white walls and the random framed articles about Yu-Topia’s food.

“For an establishment that’s supposed to have the best food ever, it’s suspiciously empty on a weekday lunch rush,” he remarks.

Viktor laughs. “I’ve never been here during lunch. Maybe they’re just quiet today.”

“Whatever,” says Yuri. Viktor waves cheerily at the men playing cards at their usual table, and the younger Russian turns to watch. “You know them?”

“They’re always playing cards when I’m here,” replies Viktor.

Yuri’s eyes narrow.

The food comes out quickly, Mari’s expression unwavering as she sets down two bowls of katsudon. Viktor tucks in immediately; Yuri looks a little more sceptical. But after a moment, he takes a bite, and blinks.

“What do you think?” Viktor asks, propping his chin on his hands with a grin.

Yuri pulls a pained grimace. “It’s okay, I guess,” he replies, and shovels more food into his mouth in an attempt to avoid answering more questions.

Viktor takes his time. Though they still have practice in the afternoon, there’s no point in rushing when he’s trying to enjoy a Yu-Topia katsudon bowl. He’s using a cheat day for this, like he’s used cheat days for all the other bowls — at this rate he’ll have spent all of the carefully saved up days that his nutritionist had allotted to him.

But it’ll be worth it. He’ll just have to find something a bit more fitting with his diet the next time he’s here.

Yuuri comes out once they’re finishing up, with a smudge of flour near his lip and a flush in his cheeks that gets Viktor’s heart pounding a little faster. “Oh, you brought someone, Viktor?” he asks, his eyes twinkling as he turns to Yuri. “Did you like the food?”

Yuri looks gobsmacked for the briefest of moments before quickly recovering and saying, “It was good, for a… whatever that was.”

“Katsudon,” explains Yuuri. “Family specialty.”

“Yeah.” Yuri shrugs. “Pretty quiet day? Or is this normal for you?”

Yuuri’s cheeks flush a little harder. “Viktor’s been my best customer,” he admits. Yuri raises an eyebrow, and Viktor feels his face slowly going up in flames.

“Does the rest of your… family run restaurants, too?” asks Yuri. Yuuri purses his lips, as if debating on his answer, before finally shaking his head.

Viktor laughs. “Maybe that’s enough questions, Yurio.”

“What the hell is a Yurio?” demands Yuri.

“I need some way to tell the two of you apart,” replies Viktor, shrugging. Yuri’s cheeks bypass scarlet for maroon.

“I came first, so _he’s_ Yurio!” he snaps, pointing at Yuuri. Viktor can’t help but laugh at his petulance before flashing a smile at Yuuri, whose cheeks are bright pink as well.

Viktor grins. “Well, I was going to give _Yurio_ a ticket to the showing of _The Godfather_ this weekend, but you seem to think _he_ should be Yurio, maybe I’ll take _him_ instead.”

Yuri groans. “I already have plans this weekend. Guess you’ll have to take Katsudon guy instead.”

Viktor looks over at Yuuri, and for a moment he’s almost hopeful. “Will you?” he asks. “I mean, if you want to —”

Yuuri smiles. “I don’t want to be any trouble,” he says, but Viktor laughs, shaking his head.

“No, no! The tickets are already here — I just don’t want Yurio’s going to waste, you know?”

Yuuri purses his lips, casting a glance towards the men playing cards (who sound like they’re trying to listen in instead of playing their own game). Viktor watches the bob of his Adam’s apple, the glint in his eyes as he thinks it over.

After a moment, he sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m busy this weekend.”

Viktor tries to hide his disappointment from a smugly-grinning Yuri.

* * *

“Wait up!” Yuuri’s voice echoes among the afternoon bustle. Viktor turns, just in time to see Yuuri elbow his way past several people, a dusting of flour still in his hair.

He can hear Yuri’s groan of annoyance, but the irritable teen doesn’t say anything else. Yuuri pulls up, panting slightly, before smiling up at Viktor.

“I’ve pushed some things around, so I’m free now.” Viktor is almost floored by how eager Yuuri sounds. “That is, if you’re still…”

“Oh, definitely!” Viktor beams. “So, uh, where should I come get you?”

Yuuri reaches forward, plucks the ticket right from Viktor’s jacket pocket. “I’ll see you at the theatre at eight o’clock sharp,” he says, his smile softening, and Viktor’s heart skips a beat.

* * *

Yuuri is as good as his word.

Viktor’s just rushing across the street from where he’d parked his car to find Yuuri arriving at precisely 8PM, his hair slicked back and his suit sharp and sleek against his slender frame. Viktor tries not to let his mind wander too far down the gutter as he steps up to meet him, secretly wishing he had a bouquet of carnations to offer the man to complete his dashing mobster look.

(There’s certainly some of that flair in the way Yuuri looks at him tonight, in the assured grace with which he takes Viktor’s arm and asks, “Shall we?” in a lilt that gets Viktor weak at the knees.)

The film is a little long, a little ponderous, but Viktor honestly isn’t here for it anyway. He’s focused moreso on Yuuri’s enraptured expression, on his knuckles clenched against the plushed theatre armrest. As Marlon Brando contemplatively smokes a cigar and discusses truth and honour with his lackeys, Viktor watches Yuuri’s lips move as if he has memorised all the dialogue on the screen.

“You like this film?” he asks, as the end credits roll and they join the crowd thronging the exit. Yuuri nods, as he steers them across the street to a small late night dessert café. It’s packed with other couples and families who’d had the same idea to grab dessert after the movies, so they get their sundaes to go and head out to the sidewalk tables instead.

“It’s not particularly accurate, but I like it,” he says, licking contemplatively at his sundae. Viktor nods, more preoccupied with the dab of whipped cream lingering on the tip of Yuuri’s nose; he reaches out to swipe it, earning himself a consternated glance.

“You had some…” Viktor says, before blushing. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” says Yuuri, gingerly dabbing at his nose with the napkin anyway. “I grew up with _The Godfather_ , actually. It was my sister’s favourite movie. She’d love to point out the inaccuracies in it, but she kept on watching anyway.”

“Inaccuracies?” asks Viktor, raising an eyebrow.

“Real-life gangsters aren’t always that well-spoken,” replies Yuuri darkly, looking down at his sundae. “And if they are, they’re just trying to be like the characters in the film.”

They change the topic soon enough, anyway — Yuuri asks about Viktor’s plans for the season, congratulates him on his recent victories at Olympic-qualifying competitions. Viktor tries to ask Yuuri about what he does, but only gets a couple mumbles of “business is great” and “we’ve got some exciting new things to put on the menu”.

“I remember reading an interview a while back about your dog Makkachin,” says Yuuri suddenly, after the sixth deflecting comment about Yu-Topia. They’ve finished their sundaes and are starting to head back to Yuuri’s apartment now. Viktor can’t help but notice that Yuuri is taking them in the direction of the restaurant, but he says nothing about it. “Is he still with you?”

“Makkachin?” echoes Viktor. “Oh, yeah. He’s great! Keeps on stealing my food, especially when I bring steamed buns home. I have photos of him; he’s getting pretty old now.”

“I also have a poodle,” confesses Yuuri, smiling. “I’ll trade you photos of Vicchan for photos of Makkachin?”

Viktor blinks. “So you’re giving me your number?” he asks.

Yuuri nods, taking out a phone and handing it over; moments after he takes it back, Viktor receives a couple images of toy poodles in a text.

“He’s adorable,” coos Viktor, grinning as he flips through the photos. Yuuri’s cheeks flush crimson beneath the streetlamps; they pause for a moment at the corner before they cross and Viktor’s brain suddenly reminds him that Yuuri’s lips look exceedingly kissable at that moment.

“Viktor,” Yuuri’s voice cuts through his thoughts, and Viktor blinks. The warmth of Yuuri’s body radiates against Viktor’s as they stand on this lonely street corner; the streetlights dance in his eyes as he looks up at Viktor with slightly parted lips. Viktor licks his own, and Yuuri’s breath hitches. His own heart pounds furiously in his chest as he leans forward, wanting nothing more than to eliminate all distance between them, to taste the remnants of the sundae on Yuuri’s lips —

“Katsuki,” a voice interrupts, and Viktor flinches away as if electrocuted. Out of the shadows steps a tall tan man, dressed impeccably in a suit and a glare. He’s followed by a blond man with a goatee and a grin that shows just a little too much teeth.

Yuuri freezes, his eyes going wide. “What are you doing here?” he asks. The tan man’s glance flickers to Viktor, before fixing more firmly on Yuuri.

“You know why I’m here,” he says. Yuuri bites his lip, before looking over at Viktor.

“Viktor, I’m sorry, but… I guess this is goodnight.”

Viktor’s world skews a little on its axis, his eyes trying to process the scene in front of him: Yuuri and two strange men, harsh and golden in the streetlights with their shadows stretching out long and twisted beneath their feet. His head feels light, but not the same light from before.

“Okay,” he says, and Yuuri steps to the curb, hailing a passing taxi and opening the back door for him.

“I hope I’ll see you soon,” he says, popping onto his tiptoes to kiss Viktor on the cheek. He then rushes him into the cab, slamming the door behind him. Viktor watches Yuuri vanish into the shadows with the other men, before the cabbie clears his throat.

“Where to, sir?”

It takes Viktor a couple minutes to unstick his throat and give his address.

* * *

Viktor doesn’t sleep that night. He tosses and turns in bed, running through his texts with Yuuri all the while. At one point he gets up, pacing over to the window and looking out at the city lights, touching the spot on his cheek where Yuuri had kissed him.

Who were those men? How did they know Yuuri? And what did they have to talk about that Viktor couldn’t be there for?

Eventually his curiosity drowns out his sense of self-preservation, and after another late practice he goes to visit Yuuri again. However, just as he’s approaching the block where Yu-Topia lies, he suddenly finds the path ahead of him blocked by the tall tan man.

“Who are you?” he demands. Viktor takes a step back under his intense glare.

“I’m… I just want to get katsudon,” he says.

“How much do you know?” growls the man.

“About what?”

“Katsuki.” The man takes a step forward. “You’ve been getting very friendly with him. It would be unfortunate if he found out there were ulterior motives for such kindness.”

“I’ve got none,” Viktor snaps, slightly defensive. “Besides wanting to eat more of his katsudon, anyway —”

The man grimaces. “Whatever you two do in private is none of my business,” he growls. “Unless it has a direct effect on _my_ bottom line.”

Suddenly Viktor finds himself being pushed against the wall of the nearby alley. Pain bursts in front of his eyes from where his head had hit the wall, and the man’s breath is hot across his face.  

“So if you squeal like a _pig_ , I’m gonna have to —”

“Crispino,” Yuuri’s voice cuts in like cold salvation. “What are you doing.”

Viktor gasps for air, as the man pulls back to glare at Yuuri. “A favour,” he spits. “The pigs raided us today. They’ll be coming for you, too.”

Yuuri exhales, taking a step forward into Crispino’s space, peering up with steely determination. Viktor is slightly awed by how quickly Crispino takes a step back, his hands falling from Viktor’s front.

“I appreciate the heads-up, but I _don’t_ appreciate you threatening my friends.” Yuuri’s voice is pleasant, but even Viktor can tell there’s a live wire running underneath, crackling ominously in the space between them. Crispino nods, takes another step back towards the light.

“My sister sends her regards,” he says, a little sullen, and then flees the alleyway. Viktor almost collapses in relief, but Yuuri quickly grabs him, steadying his trembling legs.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Viktor protests, but Yuuri starts to tug him determinedly towards Yu-Topia.

“What _are_ you doing here?” he asks curiously, tilting his head to look at Viktor. For a brief moment, Viktor loses himself again in the light of the streetlamps in Yuuri’s eyes.

His stomach growls before he can answer, and Yuuri laughs at that, all traces of steel gone from his form. “You poor thing,” he says, clucking his tongue like a mother hen, before opening the door to the restaurant and ushering Viktor in.

* * *

After that second encounter, it takes Viktor a couple days before he texts Yuuri again. Even as he does, he can’t help but turn the other man’s words over and over in his head. Raids? Pigs? What’s Yuuri been doing that needs him to be tipped off about police activity, anyway?

He tells Yuri about it during practice, and the younger man punches the air gleefully when he hears it. “I knew it!” he exclaims. “I knew there was something shady about him!”

“What?” asks Viktor, frowning. Yuri rolls his eyes.

“Have you been living under a _rock_?” he demands. “That katsudon restaurant is far too empty for an establishment that serves such good food.”

Viktor blinks. “And that automatically means it’s, what, run by gangsters?”

“Pretty much,” replies Yuri, shrugging. “Does that mean you’re going to be a mob wife?”

“It was just _one_ date,” Viktor protests. “Also, just because he operates a hole-in-the-wall restaurant doesn’t make him some kind of mob boss.”

“I dunno, old man, you’d be a lot cooler if you had a mobster boyfriend.” Yuri rolls his eyes and punches lightly at Viktor’s shoulder, before Yakov starts yelling at them to stop socialising and return to their programmes.

Viktor finds himself counting down the minutes until the end of practice. Impatiently, he watches the sun set from outside the high windows of the rink, shining against the ice. It’s late twilight by the time he’s rushing out of the locker room, bag bumping violently against his back as he hails a taxi to Yu-Topia.

But the restaurant is dark and closed when he gets out, with even the sign lights turned off and the menus taken off the front windows as he presses his face to the glass. Panic seizes his gut, squeezes at his heart with every breath. _Where is Yuuri_?

He remembers him, silhouette fading into the shadows of the buildings in the city night. Have the police caught him? Where are the other people, like Mari and the men who played cards in the corner? Were they, as Yuri had said, all members of some sort of gang?

Suddenly, he hears a click behind him, feels the barrel of a gun press against his lower back.

“Come with me,” a low feminine voice drawls in his ear, and Viktor swallows, raises his hands, and nods.

* * *

He’s led quietly into the darkened restaurant and out again into the back alley. It’s quieter back here, with only a stray cat poking into a dumpster and the static murmur of a TV in a building nearby. There’s a van idling in the middle of the alley, the smell of exhaust tinging the air, and all of the cards-playing men are loading boxes into the back of the van.

Mari is still holding the gun that’s trained on him, a cigarette dangling from her lips. Next to her, with his sleeves rolled up to show the bright and lurid tattoos across his forearms, is Yuuri.

Viktor gapes. Yuuri’s gaze flickers down to his arms briefly, before he rolls down his sleeves and smiles.

“Sorry for the inconvenience,” he says quietly.

“Please don’t kill me,” is all Viktor has to say.

“I just need to ask you a question,” replies Yuuri, stepping closer to him. He seems almost nervous, as if he’s terrified of what Viktor might say. “Did you go to the police about what you saw last week?”

“The conversation?” asks Viktor. “No, I didn’t tell a soul. Besides Yuri, and I only told him today.”

“He’s lying,” says Mari. Yuuri’s eyes narrow, and he examines Viktor closely, as if he’ll be able to discern this from the loud thumping of Viktor’s heart.

“I swear I’m not,” pleads Viktor. “I didn’t even know you’re a — that you do this.”

Yuuri bites his lip, and Viktor immediately wishes that they could be elsewhere, like in the park just outside the movie theatre, or at the front door of Viktor’s apartment building — anywhere where he didn’t have to confront the terrifying reality that he might have fallen head over heels for a mob boss who makes the most amazing pork cutlet bowls known to mankind. Swallowing down the sudden lump in his throat, Viktor tears his gaze away from Yuuri’s and shakes his head.

“Yuuri, please.” He counts the individual grains of asphalt on the ground. “Believe me.”

“I do,” murmurs Yuuri. Viktor looks up, and Yuuri’s gaze is soft as he steps into Viktor’s space, his cheeks flushing as he reaches out a hand. He traces the curve of Viktor’s jaw with a regretful downturn to his lips.

“I wish we could’ve met under better circumstances,” he admits quietly.

“Same here,” agrees Viktor. “I was… I wanted to take you to museums, and the beach, and the very top of the tallest skyscraper in the city so you could see the skyline against the harbour.”

“I’m sorry,” says Yuuri, and there’s a hitch in his breath when he says that.

“Will we see each other again?” asks Viktor.

Yuuri shakes his head. Mari drops her cigarette to the ground, grinding it beneath her heel. There’s the sudden sound of sirens in the distance, causing the van to splutter to life.

“Young Master, we gotta go,” says the man at the driver’s seat.

“Give me a moment, Takeshi,” Yuuri says, biting his lip. Then, with a sudden intake of breath, he surges up on his tiptoes again and kisses Viktor. His lips are soft and taste of smoke; Viktor lingers even as Yuuri pulls back and steps towards the van, the doors sliding open for him to board.

And by the time Viktor returns to earth, the van is long gone and a squad car is pulling up next to him in the alley.

“Sir?” one of the police officers ask, shining a light at Viktor that causes him to reel back. “Did you see where they went?”

“They?” echoes Viktor.

“The Katsuki crime family,” says the other officer, only to be elbowed by his partner. “I mean, we received a tip-off that there was suspicious activity going on at this address; do you happen to have any information about where they might have gone?”

“Oh.” Viktor smiles, and points in the other direction. “They went that way.”

“Thank you,” says the first police officer. They clamber into the squad car and pull away; moments later there’s the sound of tires screeching against the pavement and sirens fading into the distance. Viktor stands there with a finger pressed to where Yuuri’s lips had touched his, excitement coursing headily through him as he watches the lights of the police cars fading into the darkness.

And then with a spring in his step, he heads back down the lamplit streets in search of a new place to eat.

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was originally written for _[In Cold Blood](https://yoimafiazine.tumblr.com/)_.
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](https://omkatsudonplease.tumblr.com/)!


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